Why does she
seek surrender, in times
arms are always open?
A breath would spread
her seeds, as a teardrop
would grow her garden.
Why does she find answers
in her memories?
She likes leaving truth
at a door, closing it
before she forgets
what kept calling her back.
She remembers a second,
a moment, ones she collects
for decorations of pain
to adorn her hallways,
framed with harrowing faces.
A ruin, for a bed,
eyes that dance to heartbeats,
as fear always reunites
with her fragmented mind.
Light will wake her,
if she accepts deliverance
beyond her earthly shadows,
though she will bury
truth’s bright pages,
inside a casket, full of
crystallized reflections,
with nothing for the purpose
of her hopeful resurrection.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply